


Off Limits

by smartassspencer



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 18,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartassspencer/pseuds/smartassspencer
Summary: Spencer couldn’t stop the unsub in time, and you were shot in the stomach. He feels awful and ends up staying with you for a few days to help you out while you heal. Slowly, you start to think about him in a new way- but he’s your coworker. He’s off limits...right?Spencer Reid x reader. CW for discussion of PTSD & explicit smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! Please be gentle with me, lol! Enjoy! :)

You open your eyes, struggling to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights above your head. Instinctively, you lift your hand to your nose, trying to remove whatever is obstructing it. Your fingers tighten around the thin plastic tubing and you try to pull it out, groaning softly in frustration when it won’t come out.  
“Hey, hey, stop,” says a soft voice beside you. You turn to see Penelope, sitting in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. “You need that to breathe, Y/N.” She looks stressed, but relief covers her face behind her bright red polka-dotted glasses.  
You’re in the hospital, you realize. As you slowly become more aware of your surroundings, you become more aware of your own body as well. Pain blossoms in your stomach, and you gasp as it hits you. One of the monitors in the room starts beeping rapidly  
Penelope hurries over to your bedside. “You’re okay!” she promises. “Relax.” She places a hand on your shoulder and you try to take a deep breath, but it only hurts your stomach.  
“What happened?” you croak.  
“You were shot,” Penelope explains hurriedly. “That bastard Sullivan hit you right in the stomach. The rest of the team is out in the waiting room, I couldn’t do the ambulance transport thing because you know, I love you but blood, _ick_ , so I followed in the car-” She catches her breath before continuing. “They got the unsub. He’s dead. Boy Wonder shot him, but not before he managed to get you.”  
You close your eyes, trying to remember, but it’s all fuzzy. “The vic?” you ask. “The missing girl?”  
“Fine,” Penelope confirms. “Her arm was broken, but she’s going to be okay. She’s back with her parents and brother.”  
There’s a knock on the door, and you look up to see Rossi and Morgan standing at the door. “You look great, kid,” Morgan says, a half-grin on his face. You smile back at him, sensing the cadence of a joke but not knowing exactly how bad you look.  
“How you feeling?” Rossi asks. “Doctors told us you got lucky. Half an inch over, and you might’ve died.”  
“I’ve felt better,” you tell the two of them. “Thank you for staying, you really didn’t have to.”  
“What were we going to do, leave?” Rossi asks you, chuckling.  
“Yeah,” Penelope chimes in. “We’re not going anywhere. The rest of the team is outside if you want them to come in. We didn’t want to overwhelm you.”  
You use all your strength to sit up a little bit. “I’d love to see them,” you tell her.  
JJ, Hotch, and Prentiss appear at the door a few minutes later, bringing laughter and relief with them. You look around at your team, all chattering happily, a soft smile on your tired face, but it fades when you notice someone missing. You turn to JJ.  
“Where’s Reid?” you ask her. The rest of the team carries on laughing about something Rossi had said, not noticing your side conversation.  
She hesitates before leaning down to speak softly right into your ear. “He left,” she says. “He felt awful about not stopping Sullivan before you were shot. He didn’t want to face you.”


	2. Surprise Visitor

“Wake up, honey.” You open your eyes to see the night nurse standing by your bed. “Hey, Gayle,” you say tiredly. You check the clock- 4:30 AM.

Gayle grabs the thermometer, and you open your mouth dutifully. “With any luck, this should be the last night I have to wake you up at this ungodly hour,” she says cheerfully. “You should be discharged later today!” She removes the thermometer and you smile at her.

“I’m hoping so,” you tell her as she fastens the blood pressure cuff around your arm. “Three days in the hospital doesn’t seem like that much, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

She chuckles, releasing the cuff’s hold on your arm and unstrapping it. “Thank goodness you’ve got all those friends coming around every day. That’s gotta make it a little easier, right?”

You let your head fall back onto the pillow, grateful for your team but thinking of the missing face among them. “Yeah, it does,” you tell Gayle.

The next time your eyes open, it’s 6:30. The sun is just starting to come up, not yet over the horizon but starting to lighten the edges of the sky. You turn over on your side and gasp out loud at the sight of a dark figure sitting in the chair by your bed, slumped over slightly. The figure sits up, woken by your gasp. “It’s okay, it’s okay!” it says in a hushed voice. “It’s just me. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

“ _Reid_?” you ask incredulously. “It’s six-thirty in the morning, what are you doing here?”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes. “I knew you were being discharged today but I didn’t know how early, so I wanted to be here.” He swallows, ducking his head so he won’t have to look you in the eye. “You know, just in case you needed a ride home or...or something.” He looks up at you, eyeing your stomach.

“It doesn’t hurt that bad anymore,” you tell him.”They’ve been pumping me full of drugs, which could only help.”

He still can’t meet your eye.

“Reid, are you okay?” you ask hesitantly. He shakes his head slowly, his floppy hair getting in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he finally says, his voice strained. “I had the shot. I shouldn’t have waited. You’re in the hospital and in pain because of me.”

“It’s not your fault,” you insist. “You were helping me. You took Sullivan out.”

“He almost took _you_ out, Y/N!” Spencer finally meets your eyes and you see the anguish there. JJ was right. This is eating away at him. You reach out your hand and grasp his tightly. His brow furrows slightly.

“He didn’t,” you say firmly. “He didn’t take me out. I’m right here. I got hurt, but I’m healing. He would’ve done a lot worse if you hadn’t jumped in when you did.”

Spencer takes a deep breath and nods. “I still feel terrible.” You see tears in his eyes and your heart wrenches.

Your conversation is interrupted by the doctor knocking on the door and peering in with a smile. “Good morning,” says the kind-faced man who was in charge of your surgery. “Are you ready to go home, Ms. Y/L/N?”

“Yes, definitely,” you say, sitting up. Spencer quickly wipes his eyes as the doctor gives you a couple of papers to fill out. “Are you taking her home, sir?” the doctor asks.

“Yes,” Spencer answers quickly, before looking at you for confirmation. “Is...is that okay?” he asks. You nod.

“I’m going to get an orderly to come down here with a wheelchair so we can get you out of here and get you home. It’ll be a couple hours still, the paperwork moves pretty slowly around here, unfortunately,” says the doctor. He reaches over to shake your hand. “I’ll give the orderly some discharge papers so you know how to take care of your wound when you get home.Take care of yourself, young lady.”

“I will,” you promise him. “Thank you, Dr. Morris.” He nods at you and leaves the room.

The orderly shows up with the wheelchair around 4 after you’ve spent most of the day watching old movies on the hospital TV and listening to Spencer spout off random facts about filming styles and long-dead actresses, and you’re wheeled out of the hospital, Spencer following behind. He helps you into his SUV carefully, almost gingerly, as though he thinks you’re going to break. “Are you okay?” he asks once you’re safely loaded into the front seat and buckled.

“Yeah,” you tell him, and he shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. You wince slightly as the seatbelt rubs against your wound. “Do you have my address?”

“1165 Jackson Drive,” he responds almost automatically. You chuckle at him, and he looks at you with a half smile on his face. “Eidetic memory.”


	3. Request

Reid pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building and hops out to open your door and help you out of the car. You step carefully down onto the pavement and he gently grabs your arms to make sure you’re steady. You feel a tiny rush in your chest as his hands tighten around your upper arms.. Maybe it’s just all the drugs they had you on in the hospital, but Spencer’s strong hands feel nice. You feel safe and protected.

_ Stop it, Y/N,  _ you think to yourself.  _ Just get your feet under you. _

The two of you walk up the steps to the front door and down the hallway to your apartment, him gently supporting you the whole way. You unlock your door and twist the knob, relieved to be home at last. Three days had felt like an eternity.

Stepping inside, you reach for the light switch and flip it on, feeling a little insecure about the messy state of your apartment. Reid has never been inside your apartment before, just dropped you off once when your car died in the BAU parking lot. He had idled outside your building for a while because the two of you had gotten into a long conversation about what could have caused your car to die. You laughed when he quoted an entire page of an auto manual from memory, causing him to launch into a long-winded explanation of what it was like to have an eidetic memory and how it worked. All told, you were probably out there in the car with him for about an hour.

Spencer breaks the silence awkwardly. “Uh...which way is your- your bedroom?” He seems incredibly nervous, despite the fact that he’s just trying to make sure you’re safe. 

“It’s up the stairs and to the left,” you tell him. “But it’s okay, really. I can take it from here, I’m okay walking.”

“I really want to make sure you’re safe,” he insists. “For the sake of my own conscience, please let me get you upstairs?” His eyes, still full of guilt, plead with you. 

You sigh. “Okay.”

He reaches for you, then stops. “Is it- I mean, I’m sorry. Would it be alright if I put my arm around you for support? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” You nod at him, appreciating his respectful caution, and he carefully slips his arm around your waist and walks slowly up the stairs with you. 

The door to your room is open, and thankfully you left it pretty neat when you left to go to work three days ago. The two of you stand in the doorway for a moment before you make your way over to your bed and sit down. Spencer stays in the doorway, rocking back on his heels with his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders appear very tense. “Spencer, are you okay?” you ask him.

He doesn’t respond for a moment. “Spencer?” you prod him gently. 

He looks up at you, and there it is again: guilt. “You can say no, of course,” he begins hesitantly. “And I understand if you do. I realize this might sound a bit strange.”

“What is it?” you ask, beginning to get a little nervous.

He’s still shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Could I stay with you for a few days?” he finally blurts out. The rest of his words come out in a nervous deluge. “Again, I completely understand if you don’t want me to it’s just that I really want to make sure you’re alright and if you need any help I want to be here, I mean if you call I’ll be over here in a second but-” He seems to realize the speed and intensity with which his words are coming out, and stops himself. “I just- as your friend, and as someone who feels responsible for the hole in your stomach right now, I want to...take care of you, I guess.”

You wait for a moment, just to make sure he’s finished talking. When it becomes clear that he’s done, you blow a breath out between your lips, making a  _ p-b-b-b  _ sound. You debate it for a moment- on the one hand, your male coworker staying in your apartment would be a little weird. But on the other hand, it’s Reid- sweet, friendly, nerdy Reid- and you really could use someone around, just in case something happens and you need help. 

“Okay,” you finally say, looking back up at him. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

The tension drops out of his shoulders and relief washes over his face. “Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay. All right. I’m going to run home and grab a toothbrush. And some clothes and soap and- you know what, I’ll be back in an hour.”


	4. A Little Help From Your Friends...

You hear the key turning in the lock and your front door opening. “Hello, I’m back,” Reid calls from the bottom of the stairs. 

“Hey,” you shout back, hearing Reid close the door and set down something that sounds like his messenger bag. You hear him taking the stairs two at a time to get back upstairs to you. He appears at your door and smiles at you.

“Got what you need?” you ask him. 

“Yeah,” he responds. He’s still standing in the doorway.

“You can come in, Spencer,” you tell him. “I won’t bite, I promise.” He takes a couple of steps into your room, and awkwardly leans against your dresser. You fight the urge to laugh. “Why don’t you come sit down?” you ask, patting the bed next to you. “I could use the company.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, so cautious. “Would you like me to sleep on the couch downstairs tonight?” he asks. 

“Sure,” you agree. “If anything happens, I’ll just text you from up here, okay? You’ll probably hear your phone better than you’d be able to hear me.” He nods. 

“How’s your stomach?” he asks. “You should probably change that dressing before you go to sleep.”

You look at the clock. How in the world is it only 8 PM? You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck, and your eyes are beginning to droop. “I think you’re right,” you say sleepily.

“Do you need help?” Spencer asks. 

“Yes please,” you say, carefully swinging your legs out of bed. He grips your arm once again, guiding you gently to the bathroom. You sit down on the closed toilet lid and lift up your shirt to get to your dressing. You struggle to hold your shirt up and peel the dressing away at the same time, both of those things being two-handed jobs. Finally, you look over at Spencer in frustration. “I think I’m going to have to take this off,” you say quietly, suddenly feeling very shy. 

He seems unsure of what to do and ends up politely looking in the other direction as you lift your shirt over your head, revealing the dark grey sports bra that the nurse helped you put on before leaving the hospital. You peel the dressing away from your stomach, wincing at the sight of the healing- but still gnarly looking- wound. 

He hears the medical tape peeling off of your skin and turns back to you with a piece of gauze in his hand. He picks up the container of saline on the counter and carefully dampens the gauze. “May I?” he asks, gesturing at your stomach. 

“Yeah,” you reply, tossing the old dressing in the trash can.

He sits down on the edge of your bathtub and you turn yourself around so that you’re facing him. “This might sting a little,” he cautions. You nod, and suck in a breath through your teeth as he touches the saline-soaked gauze to your skin. He moves the gauze in small circles over your stomach, dabbing at the split skin as gently as he possibly can. His eyes are fixated on your stomach, clearly putting in every effort not to look anywhere else. His respect and chivalry warm your heart a little bit. 

“There we go,” he says softly, tossing the gauze in the trash and unscrewing the lid on a container of ointment. He sets the container down and washes his hands before putting a dab of ointment on his finger and sitting back down on the tub. His face blushes pink as he lightly smears the ointment over your wound. You can’t help but shiver slightly, feeling his fingers drag over your stomach. Despite the pain of the hole in your stomach, his touch sends a tiny thrill through you.

He rips open the packaging of a new dressing. “You alright?” he asks, hesitating before applying it. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you confirm. 

His fingers press the dressing firmly onto your skin. “We’re done,” he says cheerfully.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks, Spence,” you say softly. 

His head jerks up. “Spence?” he asks. This time, it’s your cheeks that grow hot.

“Sorry,” you apologize automatically. “I...I’ve heard JJ call you that and I guess it just stuck in my head.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “No need to apologize, you’ve just never called me that before.” He chuckles quietly. “You always seemed a little...almost overly formal with me, so it caught me by surprise.”

You sit there in semi-awkward silence for a moment, then stand up to head back to your room, picking up your shirt from beside you. He follows silently.

You open your drawer and pull out your pajamas. It’s only 8:20, but you’re exhausted. It’s been a hell of a day. But something stops you short.

“Spencer?” you ask in a small voice.

“Yes?” he asks from your doorway (you wonder if he’ll ever step over that threshold without an invitation).

“I think I need help,” you say hesitantly. He walks over to you, concern and a clear question on his face. “I...I can’t really lift my arms above my head because it stretches my stomach and hurts like hell...I can’t lift them enough to get my bra off.”

You can’t meet his eyes.You can’t even look in his direction. Blood pools in your cheeks and you feel ready to cry. You hear him clear his throat. 

“I see,” he says in a voice that echoes what you’re feeling- slightly strangled.

There are a good ten seconds of silence while you both struggle to figure out what to do.

“I think I can help you get it off with your back turned to me,” he finally says. “Do you want me to go ahead and try?” You nod, unable to speak, and turn your back to him. 

He grips the back of your bra and pulls it upwards. You pull the fabric upwards from the front, freeing your breasts. You close your eyes, afraid and humiliated, but not afraid of him. 

“Duck your head down,” he instructs. You lower your head as far as you can, and he pulls the back of your bra over your head, allowing you to slide it down your arms and toss it onto the bed. Spencer hands you your pajama shirt over your shoulder, and you hear his footsteps backing up towards the door. 

“I’m going to go downstairs,” he says. “Give you some privacy.” You pull your shirt gingerly over your head and turn back towards the door. 

“Okay.” You smile at him, trying to ease both your discomfort and his. “Thank you. I...I’m sorry about that.”

He shakes his head, smiling back at you somewhat uneasily. “Don’t apologize, Y/N. I’m happy to help.” He turns towards the stairs. “Goodnight,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Night,” you yell down the stairs.


	5. Nightmare

“Y/N!”

You sit straight up in bed to see Spencer standing over you in a t-shirt and boxers, looking incredibly alarmed. With a start, you realize you are crying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, a little alarmed yourself. “I don’t know why-”

“You were screaming. It’s okay. It’s normal,” he assures you. “Studies show that approximately one in five people who have experienced a traumatic event, as you have, develop post-traumatic stress disorder, which can result in nightmares and flashbacks.” He stops himself, realizing that it’s two in the morning and your tired mind isn’t going to absorb information presented in statistics at the moment. 

You put your head in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “You’ve been through quite a lot. I know what that’s like.” You notice the grimace that flashes across his face as he looks down at the floor.

Slowly, you nod your head. “Hankel?” you ask.

He nods back at you. “I still get nightmares,” he admits. “I know it was years ago, but sometimes I wake up screaming.” He swallows hard. “Just like you.”

You want to reach out and hug him, but you know how germaphobic he is. “Do you want to sit down for a bit?” you ask, scooching over to make room for him and turning onto your right side. He doesn’t say anything, but sits down beside you. You’re both quiet for a little bit before he speaks. 

“I’m sorry. Telling you I still have nightmares years later probably wasn’t very helpful.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him. “Could you maybe just stay up here for a bit? If you don’t want to that’s totally okay, I would just feel better with a little company.”   
“Yes,” he replies almost instantly. He swings his legs up onto the bed, and then seems to realize what he’s wearing- or rather, what he’s not wearing. “I...should probably go put some pants on,” he says, embarrassed. “Sorry. I heard you, so I ran up here without thinking.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” you tell him. “I mean, if you’d be more comfortable, go for it. But I’m fine like this, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He doesn’t say anything, but relaxes slightly. He lays down next to you, facing you but careful not to touch you. 

“Was it really bad?” you ask quietly.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve never talked to anyone from the BAU about it because I didn’t want them to see me as weak. But yes. It was.”

You reach out your hand and place it on the bed halfway between you and him. He looks up at you and after a moment, he places his hand over yours, almost as though he’s trying to steady himself.

“I had a seizure while he had me,” he tells you. “From all the beating and the Dilaudid. He gave me CPR. Tobias did,” he clarifies. “Sort of the ‘Jekyll’ part of his split personality. His father, Charles, came out in him when he was beating me. Charles nearly killed me, Tobias saved my life.”

Horror rises in your chest. “I’m so sorry,” you say to him, knowing that those words must fall incredibly short of what he needs, but not knowing what else to say. You find your grip tightening on his hand. 

He shrugs. “It’s just something I’ve learned to live with,” he says in a low voice. “I’m over five years clean from the Dilaudid now, but that was only part of the whole experience, you know? The rest of it catches up to me more often than I’d like.”

You nod, unable to imagine what he had been through. “You’re incredibly strong, Spencer,” you say quietly, your words sounding loud to your own ears in the silence. “I’m proud of you.”

His face twists into a confused expression. “For what? I got addicted to Dilaudid and I still have nightmares. It’s not like I handled it with exceptional grace.”

“Yeah, okay, but you survived it,” you say, slightly exasperated. “Give yourself some credit.”

“Sometimes I wonder about that,” he mumbles.

“What?” you ask.

“I wonder if I really survived it,” he clarifies. “I mean, yes, I’m alive and I’m off the Dilaudid. But the psychological effects have really gotten to me, you know? Sometimes I think-” He cuts himself off suddenly. You wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t.

“What is it?” you press.’

“Sometimes I think it might’ve been better if he’d killed me,” he admits. He catches sight of the concern on your face and quickly clarifies, “I had those thoughts more a couple of years ago, when I was in the thick of my addiction and had just been diagnosed with PTSD, not so much now. But sometimes...when we get a torture case, I…” He trails off and shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He looks up at you, a storm of emotion in his hazel eyes. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“It’ll stay between us,” you promise, not letting go of his hand.

A familiar half-smile forms on his face. “I know.”

You lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes and you begin to get sleepy again, exhausted from the sudden awakening from your nightmare and the heavy emotional weight of your conversation with Spencer.

“Do you want me to go back downstairs?” he whispers, seeing your eyes drooping. You shake your head no, unsure why, but certain you want him to stay. “Okay,” he says, and closes his eyes.

You fall asleep facing each other, hands resting together.


	6. A Brief Awakening

You wake suddenly, the grey January light illuminating the face of the man next to you. He looks peaceful, all the worry lines in his face smoothed out in sleep. You become distinctly aware that you’ve scooched closer together in your sleep and your arm is over his waist. Who moved first in the night? Him or you? You try to put your observational skills to good use- after all, you work for the FBI- and analyze the rumples in the bed, but you can’t figure it out. 

You carefully, slowly remove your arm from his waist and get out of bed as lightly as you can, trying not to wake the sleeping profiler. You plod to the bathroom, and when you come back, he hasn’t stirred. A soft smile spreads across your face before you can stop it and you climb cautiously back into bed beside him- the clock reads 7:00 AM, so you plan to try to get some more sleep. You curl up, facing away from him.

You hear him stir, and before you know it, he’s pressing into you, spooning you from behind. You’re startled, and you look over your shoulder to see if he’s woken up. He’s still fast asleep. For being woken by your cries last night, Boy Wonder sure is sleeping through a lot this morning. He lets out a heavy sigh as he settles against you. 

_ Well, now I’m stuck, _ you think exasperatedly, feeling the weight of his arm over you and his body pressing into yours. It’s not entirely unpleasant, you admit to yourself. You close your eyes, trying your best to lull yourself back to sleep. You drift off at some point, Spencer’s chest rising and falling against your back.


	7. Half Day

“Hey.”

You hear the soft whisper and slowly open your eyes.

“Hey, Y/N.”

Spencer is back to his original position on his side, on the other side of the bed. You feel a cold absence where his warm arm once was, and turn over to face him. 

“Hey,” you reply, yawning. “How’d you sleep?”

He blushes, but doesn’t say anything. “Uh, fine,” he replies. “It’s about 9:30, so I thought I should wake you up so we could get a new dressing on your stomach. Wound dressings need to be changed at least daily and preferably every twelve hours or so in order to prevent infection. Infections in bullet wounds are  _ usually _ easily treatable but it could really slow your healing process if we’re- I mean if you’re not careful.” He clears his throat. “I’ll be right back, and then I’ll help you with it again, is that alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the stuff we need,” you tell him. He rolls out of bed and disappears out your bedroom door. You hear the bathroom door shut as you get up to gather your dressing supplies, and for a moment you look back at the indent of his body left on your bed. Had you dreamt it? You find yourself wondering. Did you really come back to your bed and feel him snuggle up against you, or had your body simply been working the last of the painkillers out of you, causing your imagination to run wild and your dreams to appear more vivid than usual? God knows your nightmare had been vivid- horribly so. 

Your wandering mind is jerked back to attention by the sound of your toilet flushing and the bathroom door opening. For whatever reason, it startles you more than it should and you drop the tube of ointment you’re holding. With a sigh, you pick it up and open your drawer to grab a bra. No way are you going anywhere near the thought of taking off your shirt in front of Reid to remove your dressing. There’s no way you’re going to entertain the idea of him seeing your chest, his hands coming close to your-

_ Stopstopstop!  _ your brain screams. You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. What is  _ wrong _ with you? That’s your coworker. Who cares if he’s kinda cute, or (as you discovered last night) a good cuddler? It’s still not okay to think about him like that. 

“Everything okay?” His voice startles you and you spin around to see him standing in your doorway, sleeves rolled up. God, you’re jumpy today. “I heard something hit the floor.”

“Yep, I’m good,” you say as casually as you can. “I just dropped the tube, that’s all.”

“Should we…?” He gestures down the hall towards the bathroom.

“Yeah, I was gonna-” You hold up the bra in your hand, a front-clasping one this time so you won’t have to repeat last night’s awkward encounter.   
“Oh, right. Of course. I’ll just wait for you in there?” he asks, and you nod. He shuts your door behind him. You remove your pajama shirt, not bothering with the pajama pants since you’ve got to shower anyways-

Oh shit. How are you going to shower? You reach for the discharge papers strewn across your nightstand.

“Hey Spencer?” you call down the hallway. “Do you wanna head downstairs for a bit? I’ve gotta shower, and according to the wound care sheets the doctor gave me, I’m supposed to leave the dressing off for that.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” he calls back. “I’ll go down and read for a while.”

“There’s a guest bathroom downstairs if you want to take a shower also,” you shout through the door. “Towels are in the closet down there.”

“Sounds good,” comes the reply, and you hear his shuffling footsteps come past your door and down the stairs. You wait until you hear the downstairs shower start before you strip out of the rest of your clothes and scurry across the hallway to the bathroom. 

You wrench the stubborn handle of your shower clockwise and hear the hiss of the warm water just before it spills out of the shower head. You step in, leaning your head back and closing your eyes, letting it soak your hair and relax your racing mind. You wince a little bit as it hits your wound, but you take a look at it and are pleased to see that it’s healing quite well. It was a through-and-through shot that had, luckily, missed your internal organs, so the doctor had told you it would heal relatively quickly. 

You pick up your shampoo and gently massage it into your hair, trying to prevent your mind from going where it’s going- to the man downstairs in your shower. You fight to keep your mind away from the fact that his clothes are on the floor downstairs.  _ Coworker _ , you remind yourself firmly as you squirt some soap into your hands. You keep repeating that word in your head as you lather the soap over your body, trying not to think about him doing the same thing downstairs. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you run your soapy hands over your breasts, and despite all your effort, the image of his hands on your body creeps into your head. You find your own hands slowly beginning to wander, exploring the landscape of your stomach and breasts and hips, slowly traveling south.

_ Snap out of it! _ you think to yourself sharply, pulling your hands back. Frustrated, you yank the shower handle all the way to the left and let the freezing water soak your body. Maybe this will shock your mind back into behaving. 

You hurriedly rinse out your hair and shut off the water, stepping out of the shower as the soap swirls down the drain. You grab a towel off the rack and carefully pat your wound dry before wrapping it around you and walking back to your room. You can still hear the shower running downstairs- what is he  _ doing _ down there? Nope. Nope. Don’t think about it. You bite the inside of your cheek.

By the time you’re dressed, the water downstairs has been shut off and you hear Spencer’s footsteps crossing the living room and the soft creak of your couch as he sits down. You take a deep breath and look in the mirror before you step into the hallway to head downstairs. Why are you so freaking nervous all of a sudden?

He’s standing when you hit the bottom of the stairs, wearing one of his classic sweater vests and a pair of khakis. His messy hair is damp, with one light brown lock hanging in front of his face. You smile cautiously at him and hold up the ointment, saline, and dressing in your hand. “I think I can do this one,” you say. Truthfully, you could use his help, but the thought of his hands anywhere near you is making you a little afraid at the moment- not of him, but of yourself.

“Alright,” he replies cheerfully. “I’ll be down here if you need help. I’ve been reading this book about Friedrich Nietzsche. Did you know he was the youngest Chair of Classical Philology ever at the University of Bassel? Yeah- he held the position at the age of 24 and he actually retired only ten years later due to health issues that would eventually cause him to pretty much lose all his mental faculties at the age of 44, but he did most of his writing before then, thankfully.” He takes a deep gulp of air, having used up his entire supply of breath by rambling about Friedrich Nietzsche. “Sorry.” The excited look on his face makes you laugh.

“You get  _ so  _ excited about every new piece of information you come across. It’s nice- I haven’t really run across many people our age who enjoy learning as much as you do.”

He shrugs. “It’s such a big world, and I have a brain that’s capable of storing and comprehending multitudes of information, so why would I not want to fill it with as much as I possibly can? That’s why I have three PhDs- not necessarily because I needed them, but because I wanted to learn as much as possible.”

“That makes sense,” you respond. You glance back down at the supplies in your hand. “I’m gonna go get this done.” He plops back down on the couch with his book and you walk down the hallway to the bathroom. You don’t bother closing the door before removing your shirt. You grab a cotton pad and soak it in saline, just as Spencer had done the night before, and gently dab at your wound, trying not to cause yourself pain. Next comes the ointment, and you keep your mind firmly trained on the task at hand, rather than thinking about his fingers softly dragging the ointment over your stomach.

Once you’ve successfully applied the dressing, you pull your shirt back over your head. “You good?” Spencer calls down the hallway. You emerge from the bathroom.

“I think I’ll live, Doctor,” you joke. He grins up at you, his book open on his lap. You glance at the clock- it’s 10:15.

“Uh, Spencer?” you ask. He looks at you quizzically. “Shouldn’t you be at the BAU right now?”

“I took the day off,” he says. “Hotch knows I’m here and he thought it was a good idea that I kinda keep an eye on you.” He takes one look at your raised eyebrows and hastily tries to correct himself. “Not  _ keep an eye on you _ , I know you’re a grown woman and it’s not like you’ve got two broken legs, but- well-” Not knowing how to gracefully finish his sentence, he lapses into a cringing silence.

“It’s okay, I knew what you meant,” you assure him. “Listen, I’m completely fine here. Why don’t you call Hotch and tell him you’re just going to take a half day, and go on in. Actually, wait.” You think for a moment and then continue. “I’ll call him. I meant to talk to him about going back to work anyways, so this way I can knock two birds out with one stone.”

You pick up your phone and dial the BAU, and a peppy voice picks up. “Hello, my Swiss-cheese friend!” Penelope chirps. “Get it, cause you’ve got a hole? How’s my girl?”

You feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine, Garcia. How are things there?”    
“The team just caught a case, and it’s not overly pleasant,” she says, and you can hear the grimace in her voice. “Three women in Phoenix, left arms all chopped off postmortem.”

“Huh.” You bite your lip, running through possible reasons to chop off someone’s left arm. “What did they do for a living?”

“Different things,” Garcia says, and you can hear her keyboard clacking away in the background. “One was a teacher, one was a journalist, and- huh…” She trails off and types some more. “The last one was a medical scribe.”

“Were they left-handed?” you ask. 

“No,” Garcia replies. “All right-handed. But Y/N, you should be focusing on getting better, not trying to work a case.”

“Who says I can’t do both?” you tease her. “Are they headed out soon?” 

“45 minutes,” she replies. You cover the microphone. 

“Spencer, they caught a case in Phoenix. Wheels up in 45. You’d better get going.”

“Oh, shoot,” he exclaims, and starts shoving things in his messenger bag.

“Did I just hear our favorite genius?” Garcia asks, intrigued. 

“Yeah, you did,” you say, swearing silently in your head. Hotch is cool about Reid staying with you, but you’re fully aware you’re going to catch shit from the rest of the team. “He’s staying over for a couple of days to help me out.”

“Help you out. Ooooh, dirty,” Garcia says suggestively. You can practically hear her wiggling her eyebrows over the phone. 

“ _ Garcia _ ,” you hiss, amused but embarrassed at the same time. 

“Okay, okay,” she concedes. “But we’re talking about that one later.”

“Tell Hotch that Reid’ll be there in 20,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Actually, can you just transfer me to him real quick?” 

“Sure thing, chicken wing,” she replies. “You’ll be on hold for a couple minutes because he’s briefing the team, but I’ll transfer you over. Feel better, cheddar!” she quips before you hear the BAU’s hold music begin to play.

Reid has his jacket on and his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “You sure you’ll be alright?” he asks, genuine concern on his face.

“Go,” you tell him. “I’m good here, I promise.”

“I’ll probably be back tomorrow night,” he says. “Do you want me to come back here when I’m back, or go back to my place?”

“You can come back here,” you tell him. “It probably wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to have someone around for a couple more days once you get back. If you want to, I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, giving you one of those crooked smiles you know so well. “I’ll see you in a bit.” He walks out your door and you watch from the window as he gets in his car and drives away. 

“This is SSA Hotchner.” Hotch’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you jump slightly.

“Hi, Hotch.”   
“Y/L/N. How are you doing?” he asks.

“Really well, actually. I’m healing pretty quickly and Reid’s been a big help. He’s on his way in now to join you guys for the Phoenix case; he’ll be there in about 20 minutes.”

“That’s great,” Hotch replies. “We could use him on this one.”

“Speaking of which- you know, since I’m healing up well, I thought I’d call and talk to you about coming back to work.” You cross your fingers. It’s only your fifth day out of work and you’re already bored.

“I don’t want you rushing yourself to come back,” he says, his tone quiet and even. “Your focus right now needs to be on getting well, mentally and physically. I want you out for two weeks from today as an absolute minimum.” 

You try not to groan. “Hotch, that’s a long time,” you protest. “Seriously, I understand if I need to be on desk duty or something, but I’m dying here.”

“No, we want to  _ prevent _ you dying,” Hotch says, earnest as always, but you hear a hint of mirth in his voice. “I know it’s frustrating being sort of forced into taking time off like this, but in two weeks’ time you’ll be much better prepared to do this job.”

“All right,” you concede. “But if you need any help or research that I can do from my end, will you call me?”

“Absolutely,” Hotch tells you.  “Take good care of yourself.”

“I will,” you promise. “Bye.”

You hit “end” and sigh. Two weeks ahead of you with nothing to do but wait. Wouldn’t this be fun?


	8. Profiling From Afar

Your mind keeps floating back to the case in Phoenix throughout the day. Three right-handed women, all with their left arms missing. Why would someone chop off their non-dominant arm? You had gotten on the phone with Garcia and convinced her to send you photos of the vics, and you flip through them now. The similarities are obvious- they’re all attractive, dark-haired women in their mid-thirties. Clearly he’s trying to recreate someone.

You close your eyes, thinking back to the conversation you’d had with Garcia in the morning. A teacher, a journalist, and a medical scribe...all professions that involved writing. One could argue that their professions  _ centered _ around writing. An idea occurs to you, and you dial quickly. It only rings twice.

“All-knowing computer genius, how may I help you?” You grin.

“Garcia, what if the unsub is trying to recreate someone from his past with dark hair and a writing-centric career, but she was left-handed?” you ask. “That could be the reason he’s chopping off their left arms, because they can’t write with them and therefore he views them as useless.”

“Good god, that makes a sick kind of sense,” Garcia comments.

“Maybe she died recently,” you muse. “That could have been the trigger. Can you look for brunette left-handed women with some sort of writing-centric career in their mid-thirties who may have died in the past two weeks?”

Her keyboard clacks away for a moment and she gasps. “Holy moly, there she is,” she breathes. “Anna Harrison. She had been teaching high school for ten years before- oh…”

“Garcia?” you prod gently. 

“Before she was killed two weeks ago in a car accident,” she finishes. “The driver of an 18-wheeler fell asleep and T-boned the driver’s side of her car. She died instantly. Police report says that her left arm was sliced off in the impact.”

“She couldn’t write anymore,” you murmur. “Garcia, could you see if any of her current or former students have a record?”

“That’ll take me a little while, gorgeous. I’ll call the team and let them know what we found. I’ll keep you posted!” She hangs up quickly.

You get a text from her about an hour later. THREE FORMER STUDENTS AND ONE CURRENT W/ RECORDS. TEAM SPLITTING UP TO INTERVIEW.

You shoot her a message back. GREAT. THANKS. LET ME KNOW IF I CAN DO ANYTHING ELSE FROM HERE.

A few minutes go by without a reply, so you’re surprised when your phone buzzes again. You pick it up and look at Garcia’s latest text. REID ASKED ABOUT YOU. ;)

You groan out loud. 


	9. “What’s Up, Hot Stuff?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not as smutty as it sounds hehe

Your phone rings at about 7 PM. Assuming it’s Garcia, you pick it up with a little sass. “What’s up, hot stuff?” you ask.

“Not much?” asks a bemused Spencer. Your cheeks burst into flames.   
“Reid! I’m so sorry,” you splutter. “The call came through from the BAU number so I just sort of assumed it was Garcia. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know we got him,” he informs you. “It was a guy named Travis Beavers. He graduated five years ago and had a juvenile record for stalking his piano teacher. Anna was kind of like a mentor to him, so it really threw him off when she died. You were right, though. He was trying to make them into her and recreate his last day of class with her, which included writing on a whiteboard. When he figured out that they were right-handed, the fantasy broke and he killed them.”

You sigh. “Wow. I’m glad you got him.”

“Me too,” he says. “It’s one of those rare cases where you feel sorry for both the victim and the unsub, you know?”   
“Yeah, I’ve had a couple of those,” you admit. There’s a brief silence on the other end.

“So it looks like I’ll be back tonight instead of tomorrow night,” he finally says. “I’ll probably get in pretty late, though. It’s a 4 ½ hour flight. Do you still want me to come back to your apartment?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’ll probably be asleep, so I’ll just leave the key under the mat for you.”

He hesitates for a moment. “Where do you want me to sleep tonight? I wasn’t sure. I’m sorry if that’s a weird question.”

_ Oh, boy. _ You exhale slowly. “It’s up to you,” you finally answer him. “Wherever you’re more comfortable is fine. I honestly don’t care either way.”

“All right then,” he says awkwardly, and clears his throat. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.” 

“Be safe on the way home,” you tell him.    
“Well, I don’t have much of a say in it,” he says. “Honestly air travel is very safe- I’d have a better chance of dying in a car crash on the way back from the BAU- but the only thing I’d really have to worry about is birds. You know, that’s what took US Air 1549 down. Oh, and air pockets. Those could really take us out.”

You sigh. “Just be careful, Spencer.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “See you later.”

You change the dressing on your stomach and go to bed around 11, and despite your somewhat lazy day, you’re unexpectedly tired. You fall asleep almost immediately.


	10. 2:30 AM

You hear the door opening, but barely register it. It doesn’t wake you up, but lifts you to the point just between awake and asleep where you’re just barely conscious. 

Sounds float through the air, some of them reaching you and some of them staying downstairs. The soft sound of Spencer’s clothes hitting the floor, the bare whisper of his pajamas brushing against his skin as he pulls them on- those don’t make it to you. The sound of the sink turning on and off as he brushes his teeth and his quiet, deliberately tiptoeing footsteps up the stairs go in one ear and out the other as you hover just under consciousness and just over sleep.

His footfalls are soft and careful as he walks into your room. You hear the bed creak and feel it sink down a bit as he lays down next to you. He’s still so careful not to touch you. 

But your foggy brain doesn’t remember who he is. Doesn’t remember that he is off-limits. And so your tired body rolls over and snuggles into his chest as your mind descends back into a deep, comfortable sleep.

He’s fully awake, and doesn’t quite know what to do. Of course, he can’t wake you up to move you. Nor does he particularly want to. He remembers waking up in the morning with his arm over you and your small body perfectly tucked into his taller one. He had to have been the one to do that, right? There’s no way you could have tucked yourself into him and moved his arm over you without waking him. He curses himself silently: that was out of line. He should have stayed on “his” side of the bed, motionless, keeping his hands to himself, despite the fact that he had fallen asleep with his hand over yours. He begins to panic silently. Had he messed up your friendship? Your healing process, somehow? Your life?!

He slams on the brakes in his mind, forcing himself to count backwards from ten.  _ If she were upset about it, she wouldn’t have told you to come back _ , he thinks to himself, trying to calm down.  _ And if she were uncomfortable, she would’ve told you to just sleep on the couch. _

He looks down at your sleeping face, resting on his chest, and can’t help smiling. He carefully puts his left arm around you, and you let out a deep sigh in your sleep and shift closer to him. Despite knowing the situation is wrong and you’re his coworker and  _ none of this should probably be happening _ , he can’t help but enjoy it a little bit. He closes his eyes, trying to shut off his brain before it goes off on another tangent.


	11. Morning Predicament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to focus a little bit on Spencer's thoughts and perspective in the coming chapters, so you'll be seeing more of that!

He wakes up before you do this time, finding that neither of you moved an inch in the night. His head has dropped gently on top of yours, and his face rests softly on your hair. It smells like strawberries, he notices. You’re curled up by his side, sleeping soundly.

With a rush of alarm, he realizes that he’s hard.  _ Shit, _ he thinks to himself, desperately trying to get rid of the pesky morning hard-on before you wake up. He doesn’t want you to be weirded out or uncomfortable- especially since there are no sheets or blankets over him.  _ At least I remembered pants,  _ he thinks wryly. In his head, he runs through some of the worst cases he’s ever seen, thinking of the least sexy things he possibly can.You stir, and he holds his breath. Much to his dismay, you open your eyes. Taking in your current position, you freeze in horror. Oh, hell. What have you done now?

“Hi,” you say after a moment, seeing that he’s already awake. This fact registers in your brain, and you lift your head off his chest, sitting up. “I’m sorry,” you say, laughing a little bit and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “I must’ve rolled over in the night.”

He chuckles. “I climbed into bed and you snuggled up immediately.” He rolls onto his side, trying to use his leg to hide his current predicament. 

“Good god, I’m sorry,” you say again. “I’m kinda mortified. I don’t remember doing that at all.”

“It’s quite alright,” he quickly assures you. A smile quirks his face. “It was kind of cute, actually.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, your snoring coworker snuggling up to you in the middle of the night had to be real cute,” you say sarcastically.

“You don’t snore,” he clarifies. You raise an eyebrow.

“That’s good to know,” you mutter _. _

You get up out of bed to go to the bathroom, remove your dressing, and brush your teeth, leaving him by himself in your room. He shuts his eyes, trying hard to focus. Putting pressure on himself isn’t helping, he knows. 

Finally, he feels his overly active lower half beginning to calm down. He sighs in relief, hearing the sink turn off down the hallway.  _ Just in time _ , he thinks to himself. He blows a breath out his lips just as you appear in the doorway.

“You okay?” you ask, seeing the discomfort and anxiety on his face. He nods and practically leaps out of bed.    
“I’m gonna go take a shower. Mind if I use the downstairs bathroom again?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course,” you reply, stepping aside to let him past as he hurries out of the room. You wrinkle your forehead in confusion. What’s got him so freaked this morning? Had you done something wrong?


	12. Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut/NSFW content starts in this chapter! You've been warned! :D

Spencer closes the bathroom door behind him and drops his face into his hands, rubbing his cheeks.  _ Get a grip, Dr. Reid, _ he insists in his head. He pulls his shirt over his head and hesitates for a moment before pulling his plaid pajama pants and boxers off in one motion. He starts the water and waits for it to warm up as he looks at himself in the mirror, unsure if he likes what he sees or not.

Steam begins to fill the bathroom, but he barely notices. He doesn’t look at himself like this very often, but this morning has made him self-conscious. 

Slowly, he lifts a hand to his chest, running his fingers over the muscles built by his weightlifting. He’d only taken it up a few months ago because Morgan had suggested it. “Might help you out in the field, Pretty Boy,” he had teased. Morgan and Spencer had been working out together three or four times a week for a couple of months now. His muscles are modest, but they’re there.

His hand travels to his barely-defined abs. He continues looking at himself in the mirror, despite his own shyness making him want to look away. Would that be considered a six-pack?, he wonders. Maybe. It’s probably not defined enough for that yet. Morgan’s abs are rock hard, for God’s sake.

Spencer finally realizes that the mirror is steaming up, and he steps into the shower. He lathers his hands and tries to use the soap to gently wash away whatever had gotten into him this morning. It wasn’t unusual to wake up with morning wood, and he knew it was biological, no fault of his or yours. But something about this morning was different. Waking up like that, with you so close to him, had put thoughts in his head that shouldn’t have been there.

He soaps up his body, starting with his feet and ankles and working his way up, all the while thinking of you. He’s resigned himself to the fact that his mind is going to go wherever it wants to go at the moment, but he still groans softly in frustration and irritation as he feels himself getting hard again. 

He rinses himself off and shampoos his hair, leaning back into the warm water to let it rinse out. His hands wander down his now-clean body, grasping his firm length. Maybe, he thinks, aggravated, if he takes care of this, it’ll go away. After all, studies show that one orgasm a day can have tremendously positive effects on mental and physical health. But in  _ your shower?  _ It’ll wash down the drain, he decides. This is getting ridiculous. He can’t continue having inappropriate thoughts about a coworker- especially not one who’s just been shot. What the hell is wrong with him?

He shakes his head, droplets of water flying out of his messy hair as he slowly begins to stroke his cock, just teasing himself a little bit at first. Still wanting to be chivalrous, he does his best to keep you out of his head, but his efforts are futile. He speeds up his touch slightly as the image of you on the first night he was here refuses to leave his head. He had tried so hard to keep his eyes focused on your stomach, but he could see the shape of you underneath your sports bra, and the image fuels the shivers of pleasure pulsing through him. 

He’s not going to last long, which is fine by him. He just wants to get this under control, more like scratching an itch than anything else. But when his intelligence and expertise is stripped down and set aside, he’s still a man, and he can’t deny how good this feels.

He groans softly as his pleasure intensifies with each stroke, allowing his mind to wander to wondering what you would look like without that bra. What had you been hiding, so shy, so embarrassed, as he helped you take it off that night?

He feels the point of no return approaching fast, and he speeds up his hand again, so close and so eager to let go of this tension.

He feels himself tighten up and closes his eyes, his release seconds away. It hits him like a truck and he fights to keep his groans quiet so you won’t hear them over the shower as he comes. His body jerks, and before he can stop it, the soft moan: “Y/N…”

As the pleasure ebbs away, his eyes fly open, realizing what he’s just said.

_ This is not good, _ he thinks grimly as he turns off the water and steps out.


	13. Confessions

“Wanna grab some coffee before you go to work?” you ask tentatively, breaking the silence. Ever since this morning, Spencer has seemed incredibly off and awkward- more so than usual. He was fine when you’d woken up, but as soon as you’d come back from the bathroom, his mood had completely changed. What in the world could’ve happened in five minutes that caused him to get so distant and grouchy?

“Uh, sure,” he says, not meeting your eye. 

You both stand there for a moment, almost like neither of you wants to move first. Finally, you surrender. “Okay.” You take the stairs two at a time to go upstairs and get your purse, cursing yourself for suggesting this. He obviously doesn’t want to be around you today for whatever reason, but you really need coffee and you had thought it would be rude if you didn’t ask him to come with you.

When you get back downstairs, he’s ready to go, coat on and messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Do you want to drive separately or would you like me to drop you off back here?” he asks.

“Let’s go separately,” you answer, possibly a little too quickly. “I think I might head over to the BAU and pop in on the team. I know it’s only been a few days but I miss everybody. How does the Busy Bean sound?”

“Alright,” he says, and starts to head for the door.

“Spencer,” you say, and he turns around. “Is everything okay?”

Spencer is a lot of things, but he’s not a good liar. So when he swallows hard and says “Yes, everything’s fine,” you don’t buy it for a second- but he’s out the door before you can press him on it.

You pull into the coffee shop parking lot first, oddly enough, despite him leaving first. You go inside and grab a table after ordering yourself a vanilla latte. Might as well warm up while you wait.

He comes through the door not long after, ordering a coffee with cream and sugar and sitting down across from you. 

“Hi,” you greet him, noticing that his face is flushed. 

“Hello,” he replies, somewhat out of breath. Your brow furrows in confusion.

“You good?” you ask, still wondering what the hell has gotten into him.

“Yes,” he says, too quickly for it to be true. 

You put down your latte. “Spence.”

The usage of his nickname startles him again, and he looks up at you in surprise.

“You’ve been acting weird all morning,” you say, frustrated and concerned. “What is going on? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he replies, but you can tell you’re inching closer to whatever is bothering him. 

“Are you upset that I snuggled up to you last night?” you ask. “Did that make you uncomfortable? Cause if you want to go back to sleeping on the couch, or go back to your place that’s fine-”

“No, Y/N,” he snaps, finally looking you in the eye. “You didn’t do anything, okay? It’s me. I’m just having a weird day.”

You’re taken aback at his harshness, and you physically move back against your chair a bit. “Okay,” you say in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing it as if to get rid of a headache. “No, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.” He tries to come up with an excuse for the weird way he’s been acting, but he knows he’s a bad liar.  _ I can fool suspects in interviews, _ he thinks to himself.  _ So why can’t I just cover this up with some little white lie? _

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask. 

He takes a deep breath. Oh, boy. 

“It’s just…” he begins hesitantly. “Sleeping in the same bed and staying with you…has sort of shifted my thinking a little bit.”

You’re startled. First off, you’d had no idea anything unusual was going on in that big, mysterious brain of his. And secondly, even if there was, you would’ve never expected him to admit it. 

“Okay…” you respond slowly, trying to take in this information. 

“I understand that that’s a strange thing to say,” he says hurriedly. “And I completely understand if you’d like me to leave immediately. I really wouldn’t have said anything, because we’re coworkers and I know it’s strange and a bad idea. I just- you deserve to know why I’ve been acting off, and I apologize again for snapping at you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Okay. Thank you for being honest with me.” You pause, debating your courses of action, and knowing you have to decide  _ right now _ which one to take. 

“It’s not just you, Spence,” you admit in a low voice. “I know it’s a bad idea, but it’s not just you.” His eyes light up, but his face fills with a kind of fear you’ve never seen before. “It’s been a thing for a while,” you admit. “I pushed it aside because we’re coworkers, but I’ve always- I don’t know.” Your sentence breaks, and for the first time in a while, you’re struggling to find the right words. “But you’re right. Sleeping in the same bed, you staying over...it’s...kind of intensifying things, if that makes sense.” You cringe as the sentence comes out of your mouth, sounding dirtier than you’d intended.

Spencer nods. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, speaking just as quietly as you are. 

You consider it for a moment.  _ Do  _ you want him to leave? “No,” you finally tell him. “Listen, I know it’s a weird situation- for you, for me, and in general. But I can honestly say that I really don’t want you to leave.” He gives you a little half-smile. “Maybe we could just keep going like this for a while?” you suggest. “This isn’t overly complicated, right? Just staying in the same place?”

Spencer hesitates. “It’s maybe...not a great idea.”

Your heart sinks. “So you want to leave?” you ask softly, barely audible over the clinking of cups and the low murmur of conversation all around you.

“I didn’t say that.” He maintains eye contact with you, something you know is hard for him. “I said it wasn’t a great idea. But Y/N, I don’t want to leave either.”

“So...we try it?” you ask hesitantly.   
“We try it,” he agrees.


	14. The Nature of Your Relationship

“Hello, anybody home?” You pop your head into the office, grinning, Spencer close behind you.

Penelope gasps and hurries over as fast as she can in her three-inch red heels (you learned long ago to stop wondering about her footwear choices). “What are you _doing_ here?” she asks, reaching out her arms for a hug and then hesitating. You meet her halfway.

“Hugs don’t hurt, Garcia, I promise,” you say, laughing. ”I just thought I’d pop in and say hello to everyone. I miss this team!”

You and Penelope walk down into the bullpen, Spencer still trailing behind. Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss are at their desks, but get up when they spot you. You see Hotch and Rossi coming down out of their offices, both grinning- well, Hotch is half-smiling, which is about as close to a grin as he ever gets.

You make the rounds, hugging everyone and trading “ _good to see you”_ s and “ _I miss you”_ s.

“So Y/N, I hear Reid’s been helping you out,” Morgan teases you, waggling his eyebrows. You could kill him. Spencer sure looks like he’d like to.

“How did-?” you start to ask, and then notice that Garcia’s cheeks are turning pink. She looks up at you with a sheepish grin, mouthing _Sorry!_

“Yes, Morgan, Reid’s been helping me out. It’s super hot, because nothing is sexier than a _hole in my freaking stomach.”_ You glare at him, but can’t help grinning. Morgan irritates the shit out of you, but in a big-brother kind of way.

He shoves your shoulder playfully. “Just messing with you, Runt,” he says.

“Morgan, I’ve been on this team for three years, you think we could maybe drop the new-kid nickname now?” you ask him.

“No,” he and Rossi say in unison. Everyone bursts out laughing, you included.

“Come on Rossi, I thought you’d be on my side here!” you protest.

He gives you another hug and a kiss on the cheek, reminding you exactly how Italian he is. “Sorry, kiddo. Once you get a nickname around here, there’s no getting rid of it.”

“Yeah, that one’s gonna stick,” JJ chimes in.

“JJ, you picked yours,” Prentiss points out. “I think she needs a new one, don’t you guys?”

“Well, we could always use Cat Adams’ nickname for her,” Spencer pipes up. Everyone looks at him, confused. “Blondie McBlonderson, remember?”

JJ bursts out laughing. “God, I had completely forgotten about that,” she admits.

“Amazing how much you can forget once you find out there’s a bomb underneath the building,” you say wryly.

“Hotch might need a nickname, too,” Morgan comments, but one steely glance from Hotch and he corrects himself. “Actually, just plain Hotch fits you pretty well, doesn’t it?”

“Y/L/N, can I see you in my office for a moment?” Hotch asks.

You’re a little surprised. “Yeah, of course,” you say, and follow him up the stairs to his office.

“Is everything alright?” you ask as he closes the door behind him.

“Yes,” he says and sits down at his desk, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him. You do.

His hands are folded on the desk. “I need to know the nature of your relationship with Reid,” he says, blunt as always. “There’s no rule against agents being in personal relationships, but I’d like to be kept abreast of the situation.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I feel like I’m in the principal’s office,” you say, trying to lighten the mood a little. He cracks a tiny bit of a smile.

“We are...interested in each other,” you admit. “Nothing is happening yet, not really. He’s going to continue staying with me, because neither of us is ready for anything heavy-duty, but we just want to continue being around each other.”

“Alright,” says Hotch. “Thank you for being straight with me, Y/L/N.”

You nod. “Of course,” you reply. “And Hotch, I know you wouldn’t, but if you could just...not tell the rest of the team, I’d really appreciate it. They’re suspicious, but they don’t know anything and at least for now, I’d prefer it stay that way.”

“It will stay in this office,” he promises.

The two of you head back to the bullpen together and rejoin the group. After a few more minutes of laughing and talking, you pick up your purse and sling it over your shoulder. “Alright guys, I think it’s time for me to head home,” you tell the team. “I’ll see y’all in a couple of weeks, okay?”

“I’ll walk you out,” Penelope says.

“Bye guys!” you call to the team as you head out of the room with Penelope.

She hits the button for the elevator and pivots toward you. “Okay, Y/N, out with it. What is happening with you and Reid??”

“Garcia,” you sigh. “Come on. There’s nothing going on, he’s just helping me. I got hurt pretty badly, so he’s just helping out while I heal.”

“You forget that I know you both,” she retorts as the doors open and the two of you step into the elevator. “I may not be a profiler, but I can tell something’s going on!”

You blow a breath out between your lips. “Look. We like each other. But that’s _it._ Nothing else is going on right now, and _please_ don’t tell the rest of the team?”

Garcia pauses for half a second and then hugs you tightly. “Oh-” you say, surprised. “Well, okay.”

She releases her hold on you and looks at you with a glimmer of pride on her face. “I’m sorry I said anything to Morgan. I really shouldn’t have. But I pinky promise, I won’t say anything about this.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” you say, relieved. The doors of the elevator open, and you give her another hug goodbye as you step out.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You turn around to see her smiling. “Yes, Garcia?”

“This is good.”


	15. Music to Your Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used in this chapter is “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash! I do not own this music.

The front door opens, and with it comes a “Hello, I’m back!”

“Hi,” you call out from the couch. Spencer rounds the corner and his eyes widen a little bit in surprise when he sees what you’re holding. 

“Oh- I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed this while you were at work,” you say sheepishly, handing him his Nietzsche biography back. 

“It’s no problem at all,” he says. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah!” you reply. “I got about a third of the way through it.”

He sits down next to you on the couch and hands you back the book. You grin at him and open it back up to the page you were on, sticking your bookmark in to mark your place. 

“So I have an idea,” he says. You close the book and look over at him, curious. 

“I’m not sure if you know this about me,” he says. “But I really enjoy cooking.”

You crack a smile. “I actually didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So I was thinking- it’s a cold day, maybe I could make us some dinner? I could make a casserole? Or some soup?”

“That sounds really good,” you tell him. “I’ve got a decent amount of food here, but there’s a grocery store up the street- I can run out and grab stuff if we need it.”

“I’ve got a recipe in mind,” he says with that sweet half-smile. “I’ll go check if you’ve got everything.”

“What is it?” you ask, fully grinning now. 

“It’s a surprise!” he says, disappearing into the kitchen. 

You hear some knocking around, drawers opening and closing, and one “oops” before he pokes his head back out. “You’ve got everything we need,” he says cheerfully. “Shouldn’t take too long. An hour, maybe?”

“Can I help?” you ask. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “But let me do some prep work first so it remains a surprise, okay?” You nod and open the Nietzsche book again. 

You hear the sounds of Spencer getting things ready in the kitchen, but you hear something else too- what is that?

He’s humming, you realize. You strain your ears to figure out what song, and a smile bursts across your face when you figure it out. 

“You like Crosby, Stills, and Nash?” you call out towards the kitchen. 

The humming stops. “You could hear that?” he asks, sounding embarrassed. 

“Can I come in yet?” you ask. 

“Yes, you’re fine,” he replies. 

You get up and pull a record out of your limited vinyl collection- it’s mostly stuff your mom and dad has given you years ago. You set it carefully on your turntable and lower the needle. 

_ It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore- I am sorry… _

You walk into the kitchen to see him grinning at you. “You have their self-titled album on vinyl?” he asks, intrigued. 

“Yeah, my mom gave it to me a couple of years ago,” you reply, heading for the fridge. “Do you drink wine, Spencer?” 

“Uh, occasionally,” he replies, tweaking the knobs on your oven. 

You grab the bottle and close the fridge. “Would you like some moscato?” 

“Sure,” he says. You pour each of you a glass and hand him one. 

“Thank you,” he says, taking a sip. “You know, this’ll actually go really well with what we’re making.”

“How can I help?” you ask. 

He hands you a knife and a bag of carrots. “Go ahead and chop these up. After you’re done with those, if you could start on the celery, that would be helpful.”

“Sounds good,” you say, taking the knife and the veggies. “Jeez, what smells so good?” you ask him. 

“Bread,” he replies. “There’s a loaf of French bread in the oven.”

“You went all out!” You start chopping the carrots as he puts something into the pot on the stove- what is that? Beans? You lean over, trying to see, and he catches you looking. 

“Hey, now, that’s cheating,” he says, pointing the wooden spoon at you. 

You giggle and turn back to the carrots. “Alright, Agent Reid,” you concede. 

“That’s Dr. Reid to you,” he teases, this morning’s stress and unhappiness a distant memory, only light mirth left on his handsome face. 

You hear him start to sing along softly. “ _ Tearing yourself away from me now, you are free…” _

You smile and join in. Neither of you can keep a tune, but you’re having a good time. 

“ _ This does not mean I don’t love you, I do- that’s forever…” _

You find yourself dancing a little bit as you chop the veggies. Once the carrots are done, you bring them over to Spencer, who gestures at the pot. You dump them in and go to work on the celery, still dancing. When you finish with the celery, you turn around to take it over to him and he’s watching you with a soft smile on his face. “What?” you ask. 

“You’re...adorable,” he says, hesitating almost as though he had been searching for the right word. 

You drop your eyes, suddenly shy but unable to stop smiling. “Thanks,” you reply, tossing the celery into the pot. “Is there anything else I can help with?” 

“No, it’s pretty much done,” he says. “It just needs to simmer for thirty minutes.” He places the lid on the pot. 

_ I’ve got an answer, I’m going to fly away. What have you got to lose? _

He takes another sip of wine and sets the glass down. He walks over to you and reaches out his hand. “Will you dance with me?” he asks. 

You take his hand. “I’d be delighted,” you say in your best imitation of a Southern belle. 

_ Sing the song, don’t be long. Thrill me to the marrow… _

He places his other hand on your lower back, gently pulling you close. You lay a hand on his shoulder and the two of you start to slowly step back and forth. 

_ Voices of the angels, ring around the moonlight… _

He’s so close to you. You know you should be taking this slowly, but his strong arms around you make you feel safe. 

_ Asking me, said she so free, how do you catch the sparrow? _

His hand tilts your chin upwards, ever so carefully, until you’re looking directly into each other’s eyes. “Y/N...May I-” he starts to ask, but he’s cut off as you press your lips to his. 

The song continues around you, the only indication of any time passing at all as you kiss him. His lips are soft and his kiss hesitant at first. You go gently, knowing he doesn’t have as much experience. You haven’t been with many people, but you’re a little more sure of yourself than Spencer is right now. 

His hand migrates from your chin over to your cheek and he holds your face tenderly as he kisses you back, trying simultaneously to shut his brain up and to process what is happening. 

You break away first, not wanting to push him or overwhelm him. You stay right where you are, pushed up on your toes slightly, your forehead resting against his, wanting to ask if that was okay with him but not knowing how. Luckily, you don’t have to- he kisses you again before you can. 

The pot simmers. The record moves to the next song. But all the two of you hear is silence, residing in your own little world for just a little bit longer. 


	16. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been a few days since the last update, guys! I’m stuck inside for the next few days due to the polar vortex, so expect a couple chapters comin at ya!

“This is so good, Spence,” you say, taking another bite. “How did you know chili was my favorite?”

“You mentioned it once. October 15, 2016. It was really cold and we were on our way back from a rough case in Washington State and we weren’t going to get back until approximately 10 PM, and you said you were starving so JJ offered you a granola bar but you said no thanks, because you were saving yourself for a bowl of chili when you got home. You had some in the freezer because you had made a large batch. You said it was your favorite so you liked to have a lot around.”

You laugh. “Should’ve known.” You take a bite of bread. “Seriously, this whole dinner is amazing. Thank you.”

He places his hand on the table, and you put yours over his. “May I ask you a question?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you reply. “What’s up?”

“I know this morning we said we were going to take it easy,” he says. “But I’m wondering if we should assign some kind of meaning to our...companionship.”

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Spence?” you ask curiously. 

“No,” he replies quickly. He pauses. “Yes. I don’t know. But this feels very significant, and I’m wondering if we should call it something. I don’t want to pressure you or scare you or make you uncomfortable, I’d just like to know your thoughts.”

You squeeze his hand ever so slightly, trying to figure out how to answer him. “I know what you mean. I don’t know, though.” You take a sip of wine, needing some liquid courage to get through this conversation. “I’m afraid...if we call it something, everyone else gets invited in. Morgan will make all his innuendos. JJ will get all protective of you, Hotch will keep a hawk eye on us...it becomes everyone’s thing, rather than just ours. And I really like that it’s just ours right now.”

He nods thoughtfully, digesting what you’ve said. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he repeats. “But we don’t have to tell anyone, Y/N. It can still be just ours. And for the record, I like that too.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. “What do you want to call it?”

He clears his throat, his face pulling itself into that awkward expression he does when he doesn’t know how to say something. “You mentioned this earlier, and I thought it sounded good,” he says. “But I’d really like to call you my girlfriend.”

“Meaning you’d be my boyfriend,” you say, testing the word in your mouth. You like the way it feels. “And we’d be a couple?”

“Yes,” Spencer says. “How does that sound to you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Do you feel like we’re rushing this?”

“Yes and no,” he says. “On the one hand a, we’ve only just made our feelings for each other known. But haven’t they been there for quite a while?”

“For me they have,” you say. 

He takes another mouthful of chili, chewing thoughtfully. “When did you know?” he asks. 

“That I liked you?” you ask. He nods “It was when we were coming back on the jet from that awful case in Canada. The pig farm, remember? The day before Foyet got Hotch?”

“Yes, I remember,” he says. “God, that whole week was horrible. We were so burnt out by the end.”

“Exactly,” you say. “We were tired, we were emotionally worn out. I was curled up on the couch on the jet staring out the window, despite the fact that it was nighttime and I couldn’t see anything. And you sat down next to me, and you didn’t even say anything. You just sat there and let me lean on your shoulder. You knew what I needed.” You look up at him, feeling vulnerable. “That’s when I knew. What about you?”

“It wasn’t long before that,” he admits. “We were in San Francisco and we had those adjoining rooms at the hotel. You, JJ, and Emily were in one room and me, Rossi, Morgan, and Hotch were all crammed into the other one. We were all saying goodnight to each other and about to go back into our separate rooms, and I told you and JJ to store your valuables in the top drawer-“

“-Because burglars go for the bottom drawers first, so they don’t have to close drawers as they go,” you say, laughing. “I remember that.”

“Do you remember what you said?” he asks. You shake your head no. “JJ just rolled her eyes and walked into the bathroom to get ready for bed. And you looked at me and said ‘You’re such an idiot,’ and you were grinning.” He smiles softly. “It was the first time anyone had ever called me an idiot without making me feel small. And it just kept growing from there.”

You shake your head. “I just kinda can’t believe it’s happening, you know?” you ask. “I mean, I’ve liked you for years. It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“I understand,” he says. “I’m having a little trouble with it myself.”

“It’s a good feeling though,” you clarify. “Like a really good dream.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence as you finish eating. Internally, you mull over the possibility of being “official” with Spencer, trying silently to figure out what your own problem is. You’ve been wondering what it would be like to date him for years, so what’s your hesitation now?


	17. Second Night

“Spence?” you call down the hallway after hearing the third “oops”, the second “ouch,” and a muttered “oh no”. “You okay in there?”

“Yes,” he calls back. “Just keep stubbing my toe on your scale when I turn around.” You bite back a giggle- so smart, so handsome, and yet so clumsy. 

He appears in your doorway. “Bathroom’s all yours,” he says. “Do you need help with the dressing?”

“Nope, I’ve got it,” you say, hauling yourself out of bed. “Thanks though. Hey, are you going into work regular time tomorrow?”

“I wasn’t planning on it…” he says hesitantly. 

“Spence, really. I’m okay. You should go back- the team needs you. They’re a woman down already.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You kiss his cheek. “I’ll be fine. I swear on, uh...Emily’s cat Sergio.” 

He laughs. “That’s an interesting thing to swear on,” he comments. 

“Well, have you met Sergio? He’s adorable.” You look him in the eye seriously. “So you’ll go back?”

He sighs in defeat. “Yes, I’ll go back,” he concedes. “But you call me if you need anything, okay? Promise. I’ll come right back.”

“I promise, Dr. Reid,” you say, using his formal name as you usually do when you’re teasing him. You walk down the hallway and shut yourself in the bathroom, leaning against the sink. You look up at yourself, wondering what’s going on in your own head. Why are you so afraid?

You peel the dressing off of your stomach and set about changing it absentmindedly, all the while thinking about Spencer, you, and whatever future you might or might not have together.  _ Maybe, _ you think to yourself,  _ maybe I’m afraid that reality won’t live up to the fantasy I’ve been toting around for years. _

You press a new dressing down on your skin and brush your teeth.  _ Maybe I’m too damaged for this,  _ you think to yourself sadly. You’ve been hurt badly before- how are you supposed to just forget that and trust someone else? You close your eyes for a moment, memories flashing behind your eyelids of shouting and glass breaking. You’ve pushed it back for a long time, but it still stirs fear in your mind.

You put your toothbrush away and take a deep breath to steady yourself, carefully putting those memories back where they belong- hidden away in a dusty corner of your mind- before going back to your room.

Spencer is in bed by the time you get back, his book open and glasses pushed way down his nose. You climb into bed next to him and he almost absentmindedly puts his arm around you so that you can comfortably snuggle into his bare chest. He kisses the top of your head and closes his book, setting it on your bedside table along with his glasses.

“You alright?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. You nod against his chest, trying to conceal the turmoil in your mind.

“Just sleepy,” you tell him. He stays quiet for a moment and you think he’s accepted this answer.

“I’m a profiler, you know,” he says quietly. Damn it. You should’ve known you couldn’t hide your distress from him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and slowly shake  your head. “Soon, I promise,” you say softly. “But not now. I just...it’s late, I-”

He cuts you off by tilting your chin up and kissing you gently. “You don’t have to explain,” he assures you. “We’ll talk when you’re ready, okay?”

You’re unable to respond. Instead, you just kiss him back, softly at first, and then deeper. His hand weaves through your hair and you put your hand on his cheek, feeling the soft stubble on his face. The romance is thrilling, but frightening. Commitment scares you. But this? This, you know how to do. It comes naturally- especially with him. 

You open your mouth slightly, not wanting to push him but wanting to give him the option. After a moment of hesitation, you feel his tongue gently sweep against yours. You find yourself wanting to be closer to him, and your brain is miraculously quiet. 

His hands wander, but not impolitely. One ends up resting on your hip while the other cups your cheek, and you lose yourself in him. Somehow, you’ve ended up with your bodies pressed together, hands in each other’s hair, kissing passionately while the quiet of the apartment surrounds you.

You feel him growing hard against you, and he pulls back for a moment, looking like he’s about to apologize, but you drown the impending apology in another deep kiss, feeling the heat between your own legs. You know tonight isn’t a good night to take that step, but in this moment, you are so content to lay here with him and do this all night.

You find your hips moving against his, and his moving along with yours. None of this was planned, and a small but panicky voice in your brain screams that it’s all happening too fast. But the movement of him against you drowns it out quickly enough. It drowns everything out. Every thought. Every instinct that’s telling you to run. 

You’re the one to break the kiss. “You need to work in the morning…” you murmur, tracing your hand along his side. 

You feel him shiver slightly, and hear the reluctance in his tone when he says “Yeah, you’re right.” You’re both out of breath, but smiling.

You snuggle back into his chest, feeling it rise and fall under your cheek. You’ve never drifted off to sleep more peacefully.


	18. 6:30 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING!!! Description of abuse suffered by reader (physical and emotional) and mention of sexual assault as well as description of after-effects. If you or someone you know is being abused, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

_ Beep-beep-beep-beep _ .

The alarm rouses you before it does Spencer. You’ve rolled away from each other in the night, but you roll back over to him and kiss his cheek. He stirs, his eyelids fluttering a little before they open. “Sorry,” he croaks, putting his arm around you and pulling you close. “Go back to sleep.”

You kiss his cheek again. “I’m up,” you say sleepily. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty,” he murmurs into your hair. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be back around 5:30.”

“Let me make us some coffee,” you insist tiredly. You feel his lips, still resting on your scalp, turn into a smile. 

“Can you even move?” he teases. 

You take it as a challenge, disengaging yourself from his warm arms and shivering a bit as your bare feet hit the cold floor. “I’ll be back,” you tell him. 

You trudge down the stairs, noting the silence in your apartment. Six a.m. silence, you think to yourself, is different than any other time of day. You can’t put your finger on exactly how. 

You start the pot of coffee, marveling at how a week off from work can screw up your sleeping patterns. You wonder if you’ll be able to get up when you’re finally able to go back to work. The coffee finishes brewing and you grab two mugs from your cabinet, filling them both and putting a bit of cream and sugar in each, and back up the stairs you go. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you get back, looking a little more awake than he had when you’d left him. You hand him one of the cups and he takes it with one hand and takes your hand with the other, pulling you gently down to him for a kiss. Neither of you needs to say a word. 

You drink your coffee in silence, sitting next to each other. You’re the one to speak first into the quiet after you’ve finished your coffee. 

“Spence?” you ask softly. 

“Hmm?” he answers, swallowing the sip he’s just taken.

“My answer is yes.” you blurt out before you can overthink it. “You can...you know. Call me your girlfriend. If you still want to.”

“Are you sure, Y/N?” he asks. “I know you were a little wary, I know you weren’t sure-”

“I’ve never told anyone this,” you say, gently cutting him off. “And I’m sorry, I know it’s early, but I feel like you should know. Do you remember me ever mentioning Alex?”

“Your ex from before you joined the BAU?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You probably remember that we dated for three years and we broke up shortly before I joined the BAU. But what I didn’t tell you was that for about a year and a half of those three years, he was physically and emotionally abusive.” Spencer’s eyes widen in horror, and you keep talking before you can overthink telling him the rest of the story. 

“I was assaulted by a stranger a year into my relationship with Alex,” you tell him. “I wasn’t raped, but I was walking home by myself and I was pulled into a doorway and groped.”

You hear him murmur, “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” you say. “As you can probably guess, it messed me up pretty bad. I was afraid to go out, I was afraid of men in general, I didn’t let him touch me for a while.”

“That’s understandable,” Spencer says. 

“You’d think,” you say bitterly. “But six months after the assault, Alex started getting frustrated. He’d tell me I was boring because I never wanted to do anything. That I should be ‘over it by now.’ One thing led to another, and one day he threw a glass at me.”

Spencer sets his coffee cup down on your nightstand, leaving his hand free to hold yours. 

“It missed,” you say. “But things like that just kept happening. I didn’t even realize it was abuse, not for a long time. You told me the other night that it was normal to develop PTSD after something like the shooting- but the truth is, I already had it. I was diagnosed when I came into the FBI, but they determined that it didn’t make me a risk in the field.” You shake your head, trying to clear the ugly memories from your head. “But that’s the last time I was in a relationship. So I hope you can understand why I’m hesitant to get back into something. Not that you’ll hurt me,” you clarify quickly. “I mean, it’s not that I think you will. It’s that if you wanted to...you know. You could.”

Your heart open and spilled out, you wait for Spencer’s response. 

You feel his arms encircling you, and you lean into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he says in a low voice. “I can promise you right this second-” He pulls back so that he’s looking you in the eye. “-I will never, ever hurt you.”

“I know,” you tell him. “I know you won’t. I’m not afraid of you. I just want you to understand why this is such a leap of faith for me.”

“I understand,” he says. “And now that I know this, I’m going to ask you again- are you sure this is okay? Are you sure you’re ready?”

You suddenly find it hard to speak. Instead, you lean in to kiss him. 

When you break away, you look him in the eye and nod your head yes. 


	19. Getting Ready

Your phone buzzes around 2:00. You put down the Nietzsche biography, which you’re now about halfway through, and check to see who’s texting you. 

HOW ARE YOU FEELING? reads the text from Spencer. YOU UP FOR DOING SOMETHING TONIGHT?

WHAT KIND OF SOMETHING? you type back. 

SOMETHING OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT, he replies. 

YEAH, I’M UP FOR THAT, you text back. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF DOING?

YOU’LL SEE, comes the reply. I’LL BE HOME AROUND 6 INSTEAD OF 5:30. WEAR SOMETHING YOU FEEL PRETTY IN. Another text quickly follows it. THOUGH I THINK YOU LOOK PRETTY IN ANYTHING. 

You send him a smiley face. Something you feel pretty in…

At about 4:30, you figure you should start getting ready. You go upstairs to your room and open your closet. Almost absentmindedly, you run your fingers through the clothes hanging on the rail, trying to figure out what you’re getting dressed for. Dinner? A movie? Both? Neither?

It’s cold out there, so you eventually settle on a grey sweater dress. You change the dressing on your stomach before slipping the dress over your head, silently thanking the universe that you just happened to shave your legs this morning. You try on a few pairs of shoes before settling on the black heeled boots. 

Your mind wanders a little as you pick out a necklace, finally deciding on a chunky purple one before heading to the bathroom to do your hair and makeup. You’re going on a date tonight with your boyfriend.  _ Boyfriend.  _ You carefully sift the word back and forth in your mind, testing it out. You’re surprised to find that you like the sound of it.  _ This is my boyfriend, Spencer.  _

You dust some soft brown and gold shades over your eyelids, letting it settle before swiping on some eyeliner into a small wing. You don’t usually wear a lot of makeup, and you suppose this still wouldn’t be considered “a lot,” but you hold your breath as you do your other eye, finishing up with a coat of mascara. 

You look in the mirror. It looks nice, but something’s missing. You hesitantly pull out a dark red lipstick Garcia had convinced you to get a few months ago. You’d been out on a shopping trip with her, Emily, and JJ, and they had dragged you into Sephora (let’s face it, it was mostly Garcia doing the dragging). You smile at the memory, remembering JJ trying on an incredibly bright purple lipstick and not being able to get it off. She wandered around with bright purple lips for the entire evening. 

You step back, pursing your dark red lips at your reflection. Much better. You spritz your face with setting spray, locking the makeup in. 

You plug in the curling wand, putting the finishing touch on your look- you look adorable, if you do say so yourself!

When you’re finally done, you spray your hair with some extra hold hairspray and check your phone. Perfect timing- it’s almost exactly 6. 

As you go back to your room to get your purse, you hear the front door open. “Are you ready, Y/N?” your boyfriend calls up the stairs. 

You come down the stairs, trying not to stumble in your heeled boots. “Yep!” you say cheerfully as you reach the bottom. You look up at him and see a stunned look in his eyes. “What?” you ask, suddenly alarmed. 

“Nothing, you’re just beautiful,” he answers. “Sorry, that probably sounded cheesy. But it’s true.” 

You roll your eyes, smiling, and stretch up to kiss him. “Where are we going?” you ask. 

“You’ll see!” he exclaims, taking your hand and pulling you out the door. 


	20. First Date

He pulls into the parking lot and your forehead creases with confusion. You’re not quite sure where you are- you see the sign that says John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, but you’ve never been here. 

He hops out of the car and comes around to your side to open your door- you smile at his chivalry. “Thank you, Dr. Reid,” you say, half-teasing, but somehow feeling that a first date calls for the use of his formal title. 

“My pleasure, Agent Y/L/N,” he replies smoothly, locking the car. 

The two of you step into the building and your breath is taken away by the beautiful, modern lobby, carpeted entirely in red with high white walls and huge glass windows. He leads you over to will call. “Two tickets under Spencer Reid,” he tells the man at the window, who types something into his computer and then hands Spence two tickets. “Thank you,” says Spence, handing you a ticket. “Don’t look at it, it’ll spoil the surprise,” he urges you.  The two of you head for the usher, who tears your tickets and points you to your seats. 

You sit down next to Spencer, who reaches for your hand. “Are you having fun?” he asks.

“Definitely,” you tell him. “Although I’ll be having a lot more fun when I know what’s going on…”

As though on cue, the red curtain rises and music fills the air. You gasp in surprise as the curtain comes up over a large group of people.

You turn to him, a shocked smile on your face. “You brought me to the symphony!” you exclaim quietly, directly into his ear. 

“I did,” he says into yours. “I remembered you mentioning how your mom used to take you once a year when you were growing up in Maine and you’d get all dressed up, and how you used to love it. So I thought you might enjoy it now.”

The music swells around you as you lean your head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around you. “That eidetic memory of yours makes you pretty damn thoughtful, Dr. Reid.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Anything for you, Agent Y/L/N.”

By the time the performance is over, you are absolutely giddy. The music is beautiful, and the man sitting next to you (by your measure, at least) is the sweetest man on earth. The fears brought on by your relationship with Alex still remain, but in this moment they’re more like soft murmurs in the back of your head, rather than loud, screaming alarms. You resolve silently not to police your feelings for Spencer. You know the red flags to look out for, and you promise yourself that you will allow the chips to fall where they may. Your mind knows this is going to be hard for you, but God, your heart wants this so badly.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks as you exit the theatre, coming back into the freezing January air. You’re in too good of a mood to notice the biting cold, instead taking both of Spencer’s hands, practically bouncing.    
“It was so good!” you exclaim. “That third song, with the viola solo? Oh my god, could you believe it?”

He laughs, pulling you close to him. “I’m so glad,” he says, and you see a deep happiness in his eyes. He enjoys making you happy, you realize. What a concept. You’re a little bewildered, but in the best possible way. 

“Ready to go home?” he asks. You nod, stifling a yawn. Who knew that sitting down for an hour and a half could wear you out so much?

Snow begins to fall gently around you as you walk back to Spencer’s SUV, hand in hand. He opens your door again and you climb in. “Hey Spence?” you ask as he goes to shut the door. 

“Yes?” he asks, pausing with his hand on the door.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “Tonight was amazing.”

“Of course,” he says, smiling at you and shutting the door.

He puts on a Crosby, Stills, and Nash playlist on the way back to your apartment as you try not to fall asleep in his front seat. His right hand rests on your leg, his thumb gently stroking along your dress, soft and soothing. You can hear him softly singing along to “Southern Cross,” and you close your eyes, a relaxed happiness consuming your mind.

“Y/N.” Spencer’s voice cuts through to you and you feel him shaking your leg slightly. You open your eyes. 

“Oops, sorry,” you say groggily. “Guess I dozed off a little.” 

He chuckles and the two of you step out of the car and head up the walk to your apartment. You open the door and flip on the light, hanging your purse on the hook by your door. “I’m gonna get ready for bed,” you tell Spencer. “I’ll see you upstairs?”

He kisses you on the forehead, and heads towards the downstairs bathroom as you walk up the stairs.


	21. First Times, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! Sorry it's been a few weeks since I updated. It's been a rough couple of weeks in a lot of ways, but I'm back now. I decided to split this chapter into two pieces since a) it's turning out to be a long chapter and b) I wanted to get back to posting! Thanks to everyone who's been commenting- it's more encouraging than you might realize! :) Warning: This chapter, both part 1 and part 2, contain some explicit smut!!

You lay on your back in bed with your pajamas on, waiting for Spencer to come back upstairs. There are a million thoughts flying through your head, but at the same time, you feel calm. You were so tired twenty minutes ago, but you’re strangely wired now. 

You hear his footsteps coming up the stairs and you smile as he appears at the door, dressed in a t-shirt and boxers, as usual. “What?” he asks, catching a glimpse of your smile.

“Nothing,” you reply, sitting up against your pillows. “I’m just happy to see you.”

He grins back at you, climbing into bed next to you and shutting off the bedside lamp. You contentedly snuggle up against his side and feel him land a soft kiss on the top of your head.    
All is quiet for a few minutes until you break the silence. “Hey Spence?” you ask softly.

“Mmm?” he replies sleepily. 

“Can I ask you something personal?” 

He pulls back so that he can look you in the eye. “Of course,” he says. “What is it?”

“Well, last night kinda got me thinking,” you say hesitantly. 

A smile plays over his lips, remembering  _ exactly  _ what you’re talking about. “And what exactly did it get you thinking about?” he asks.

“I was just curious…” you reply. “Have you ever slept with anyone?”

“Yes,” he replies. “A couple years ago, but not since then.”

“Okay. I was just curious,” you repeat quickly. “I don’t want to pry or any-”

“Lila Archer,” he gently interrupts. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise before you can stop them.

“Lila Archer?” you ask. “I mean, I knew you kissed her, but I didn’t realize anything else happened. I’m not jealous or anything,” you quickly clarify. “And stop me if I get too nosy.”

“You’re alright,” he assures you. “We shut it down pretty quickly after she kissed me in the pool that one night, but she ended up calling me a couple of weeks later. We had a friends-with-benefits thing going for a few weeks before she left for Australia to film another movie.”

You nod silently, digesting this information. You’re not jealous, of course, but something you felt back then makes sense to you now. You remember feeling strange when Morgan had teased Reid about kissing Lila, but at that point, you hadn’t known why. You remember that it had felt like your stomach dropped into your toes as soon as Morgan had mentioned it. 

“You alright?” he asks, gently tilting your chin upwards so you’re looking him in the eye.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I just should have realized I liked you back then, I think. I remember feeling weird and sort of upset when you kissed Lila, but at that point I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why.”

He kisses your forehead. “I suppose we liked each other long before we consciously knew it, didn’t we?” He lets you settle in against his chest before asking, “Is it safe to assume you have also slept with someone before?” 

You smile at his cautious tone. “Yes, I have,” you tell him. “Only two people, though. Alex, obviously, and then this one guy in college. Oh, unless you count Tyler Backis.”

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“The guy who awkwardly felt me up in the front seat of his mom’s car, which he borrowed for the night to take me out for dinner at Steak ‘n Shake,” you say dryly. “We were 17, so you can bet he was really good at it.”

You feel his body shake with a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose so,” he murmurs into your hair. “I don’t know how I’ll ever compete with Tyler Backis’s skills, to be perfectly honest.”

You reach up to kiss him. “You have  _ nothing _ to worry about, trust me,” you say, giggling. 

He kisses you back, and before you know it, your kisses are becoming deeper and your hands are wandering, exploring the landscapes of each other’s bodies, just like last night. His fingers rake gently through your hair, both comforting you and pulling you closer. You relax into the feeling of his arms around you and his lips gently but firmly moving against yours. You’ve only kissed him like this once before, but it already feels beautifully familiar. 

Your hips are moving together, just as they’d done last night. His strong arms pull you up so that you’re laying on top of him. As you grind against him, you feel his lips moving down your neck and you gasp at the thrill running through your body. 

Your hands reach for the bottom of his t-shirt, pushing it up to expose his stomach. “Is this okay?” you ask between kisses. He nods wordlessly, gently rolling you off of him so that he can sit up and strip off his shirt. You’ve seen him without a shirt a few times before, but you’re still amazed at how beautiful he is.

He’s on top of you now, kissing you fiercely. Your hands wander over his surprisingly defined chest, running your fingers down his arms. He takes a break to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. He reaches for your cami, a question in his eyes. You nod and sit up, reaching your arms to the ceiling so that he can lift it over your head.

You’ve never had any particular insecurity complex with your breasts, but you still feel shy as he looks at them for the first time. There’s an awed expression on his face that almost makes you want to laugh.

He lands another kiss on your lips before trailing a line of kisses down your neck to your breast. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly between kisses, before closing his lips over your nipple. Your breath comes in a shaky sigh, electricity zapping through your body. He comes back up to kiss your lips again, and you feel his tongue stroke against yours as your naked torso presses against his. His warm skin feels good, you think absentmindedly, even pressed against your nearly-healed bullet wound.

You trace your hands down his sides, dragging your fingertips gently over his skin, and you hear a low moan in his throat. The sound is incredibly erotic, and you feel yourself growing wet. Your hands continue downwards, coming to rest at the waistband of his boxers. You leave your hands there, letting him take the lead, not wanting to push him. 

“What’re you doing there?” he asks, his tone sly, his adorable half-smile taking over his face.

“Oh, nothing,” you say casually. “Just wondering if you want these to come off, that’s all.”

“Maybe I do,” he replies in the same casual tone. 

“Well then, would you like me to help you get them off?” you ask, sliding your thumbs just barely underneath the waistband. You feel him shiver.

“I wouldn’t object,” he says. 

You slide his boxers down his legs. Once they reach his calves, he hooks his foot into them and gracefully kicks them onto the floor. 

You try not to gape as you see him- really see him- for the first time. You had been fantasizing about this for a while, but he had been hiding so much under those damn black jeans of his. Just eyeballing, you’d guess he’s 7 inches or so. You flash back to a time- must’ve been five years ago or so- when Morgan had poked fun at Spencer after he’d spouted off a long list of random facts. “Overcompensating for something, pretty boy?” he’d asked, nudging Spencer’s shoulder playfully. Now, as you kiss him again, you can see clearly that he had not been compensating for  _ anything. _

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur as he moves his lips back towards your neck. 

“Hey, that’s my line,” he says, closing his teeth gently around the soft skin on your neck.

You moan softly, but manage to say “Fine. You’re handsome, how’s that?”

“Much better,” he says through his teeth, sucking on your neck. You know he’s leaving a hickey, but what the hell. You don’t have work tomorrow, so who cares.

His hands wander down your body, pausing at the drawstring on your pajama pants, just as you had done. “Can these come off?” he asks, his voice surprisingly smooth.

“Yes, they can,” you reply, silently thanking God that he’s so good about asking for consent.

He pulls at the drawstring, loosening it, and hooks his thumbs through the waistband of both your pants and your underwear, pulling them off in one smooth motion.

And just like that, you’re naked together for the first time. 

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	22. a note from the author

Hi friends!  
Just wanted to check in and tell you all that I haven't forgotten about this fic and will do my best to update soon. I've been going through some personal stuff for the past couple of weeks and it has kinda taken a backseat.  
Thank you for the kudos and comments even while I've been gone. It means more than you know!  
Back soon,  
Katie


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